


Knowing better

by Lobelia321



Category: Football - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-05
Updated: 2006-08-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 05:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lobelia321/pseuds/Lobelia321





	Knowing better

_**FICLET: Knowing better (Richard Hanlon / Ryan O'Neil)**_  
Title: Knowing better  
Author: Lobelia; [](http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/profile)[**lobelia321**](http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/)  
Fandom: Football  
Pairing: Richard Hanlon (Cambridge United) / Ryan O'Neil (West Ham United)  
Category: Very obscure and rare rps pairing. It was only a matter of time. I can never resist the rare and the weird for long. And how much stronger is its pull when the r & w struts its stuff live before my very eyes!  
Canon: Cambridge Utd vs West Ham, 1 August 2006. I was at this match. Rps has taken on frightening and absurd proportions.  
Disclaimer: This is not true. I do not know these people. The events recounted herein, while based on a factual context, are entirely fanciful. This is amateur fiction. No money is being made.  
Pics: If you don't know these players (and I can't imagine that you wouldn't...), pics included at the end of the ficlet! ;-)

 **Knowing better  
by Lobelia**

  
I should know better by now.

I didn't have my tea. Nor my lunch. Nor even any breakfast to speak of.

Too excited.

We haven't played a major side in... well, not since I was signed, anyway.

And we haven't had the Abbey this full since... ever? It feels like a different stadium. It feels like an away game! We were warming up on the turf, pink sky, green grass, the Hammers over yonder doing their stretches and their kicks and-- what, engaging in some sort of pre-match strip-tease...?

Anyhow, it's the crowds that amaze me. I'd say seven, even eight thousand. I've never seen more than three in this stadium! The noise is phenomenal!

Most of them are cheering the other side but well... I'd be if I were in the stands. I mean: a living legend!

On our home ground!

Teddy Sheringham!

He's not playing yet. But that doesn't matter now, anyway.

Because I should know better.

I should.

But I don't.

He's the Number 12. He's the right-back defense. He's fast, he's taut, he's got eyes at the back of his head.

They all do, these West Ham players. Wherever you run, there they are. There's always one of them, sometimes two. Buggered if I know how they can tell where the ball's going to be. It's ball awareness, that's what they've got. Incredible.

Everything seems different with them here. The grass is greener, the goal mouth larger, the clouds higher and the crowds louder. The pitch shrinks and tilts. They are amazingly fast, amazingly fit. Even that kid. That little guy. The Number 12.

He looks no older than sixteen; seventeen max. He runs like the devil. It feels scary tackling him. It feels scary tackling any of them.

But with him -- I'm frightened of breaking him.

Snapping him like a twig.

I could. I should know better. I could. After.

Focus, Ritchie.

I must focus. Because --and that's all the guys were talking about in the dressing room-- the terraces --and that's what everyone's been claiming but who knows if it's so-- are crawling, literally crawling, with scouts.

And if I do well, and if I focus... then it won't matter that we're three down and it's not even half-time yet. Because I can go up the chute and all the way to the stars.

That kid is there again, that Number 12.

Cheeks pink like candy floss, hair brushed like a two-ply rug, and those skinny arms pumping up and down as he runs.

And can that kid run.

My, oh... Run straight into me.

Ball gone. Of course. Ball gone, focus gone, sense gone.

His sweaty hand on my sweaty arm, and I could bend those fingers, snap snap snap.

During the break, I endeavour to corner the kid outside the visitors' loos.

"Hey, kid," I say.

"Hey," the kid says.

"What's your name?" I say.

"Ryan," he says.

"Ryan," I say. "You'll go far, Ryan."

"Thanks," he says and smiles.

Suddenly, I realise he's exhaling hot air and breathing fast, and that the pink cheeks and the sweaty hands are the result of high excitement.

It occurs to me that the kid is very, very young.

"Kid," I say. "How long've you been playing for the Hammers?"

"This is," he says, "my first senior game."

His eyelashes flutter. He puts his hand to his mouth. He's got a little mouth, like a keyhole, and a wristband around his wrist.

"Kid," I say, and I grab his wristband, with his wrist inside it.

The kid is startled. And breathless.

I know an opportune moment when I meet one.

I shouldn't know one. I should know better.

But I don't.

The kid's mouth is defenseless and open and very plump.

The tip of his tongue is like the stem of a cherry. So sweet, and there for the plucking.

Oh, just one more.

"Okay, kid," I say. It should be embarrassing; I'm not even out of breath. "Well done." I pat his cheek. "Well done."

My grinning face walks back with me, all the way to the tunnel's end.

Why I keep doing this, I don't know.

Oh yes, I do.

Because there's more than the fast lane. There's more to life than the chute to the stars.

There's the scout up in the sky.

Aw, Ritchie. What a load of bullshit. Get a grip, keep your hands to yourself, reel your tongue in and show some sense.

Second half, and we get creamed. Number 12 runs on angel's wings. He's not even fazed.

He'll go far, on and off the pitch.

Me? All the way home on the A 14, and not a scout in sight.

+++

THE END  
Lobelia; 5 August 2006  
Typed straight into LJ.  
On LJ = <http://lobelia321.livejournal.com/493424.html>

Richard Hanlon:  


Ryan O'Neil:  



End file.
